


eye of the storm

by lilibug



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, And hiding in closets, Betty as a PI, F/M, Jug as a southside serpent, Oneshot, Sexual Tension, Some sleuthing, little bit of mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 13:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13952211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilibug/pseuds/lilibug
Summary: There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, where the sea's asleep and the rivers dream, people made of smoke and cities made of song. Somewhere there's danger, somewhere there's injustice, and somewhere else the tea is getting cold.—Betty finds herself investigating a case that lends itself to a larger mystery. She finds help from an unlikely source along the way.





	eye of the storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WriteEditLife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteEditLife/gifts).



> Thank youuuuu to [theheavycrown](https://theheavycrown.tumblr.com) for being my beta, she is tha bombbb.
> 
> This is for [dreamer757](https://dreamer757.tumblr.com) on tumblr (WriteEditLife) who I selected in my drawing for my fic giveaway in celebration for 1k followers. I so hope you enjoy this!! <3
> 
> (Quote from my summary is from Doctor Who, the 7th, specifically.)

 

There was nothing quite like sitting in your car for hours on end with a big slurpee from the 7-11 and a bag full of snacks that would give Alice Cooper a metaphorical heart attack.

You know the ones: zebra cakes, fudge rounds, doritos, cosmic brownies, and red bull.

Betty did eat a cup of mandarin oranges, she had scarfed them down after spraying herself in the face with the juice from the cup. There was a daily dose of fruit mixed in there somewhere.

But this was a stakeout, junk food was mandatory.

She’d been sitting in her car for the better part of the afternoon; well into the evening. Betty was parked in the small lot adjacent to a bar called The Whyte Wyrm. Her current target had yet to enter the scene, but she knew he’d come around. At least, she’d hoped so for the sake of her job.

Although she had only been on this case for a couple of days, she already felt like she was making headway. Betty was still trying to prove herself at IntelliQuest Investigations, despite having been off her orientation period for more than six months now. All she’d had on her own so far had been small cases or dead ends that she’d had to shelve. She really wanted to earn higher profile cases and of course, a raise was always nice.

Needless to say, she had been working around the clock for this to go well. And tonight would be one for the books, she was certain of it.

That is, if she could get into the bar.

The night prior, she’d come with her normal clothes: light pink cardigan over a white lace tank and pleated baby blue skirt. The door attendant had certainly ogled Betty’s legs, but denied her entry with a laugh, claiming the bar had been rented out for a private party.

She had caught a glimpse of who she was looking for when the door opened and a patron squeezed past her. He was looming over the bar, watching from the second floor balcony. She had half a mind to climb up the firescape in the alleyway and sneak inside. Unfortunately even the first rung of the drop down ladder was high above her head. Betty wasn’t one to give up without trying though, and she had jumped in an attempt to grab onto the ladder. All she ended up with was a handful of air and thoroughly scraped knees for her efforts.

This time, she had selected more appropriate attire for a bar outing. She dressed in a red, sleeveless crop top with black high-waisted jeans and dark, sultry red lipstick. She had dug out her mother’s old, well-worn leather jacket from within the depths of her closet and slung it across her backseat to slip on, as well.

Betty was beginning to fear she’d have to pop the button on her pants if her target took much longer.

Then, as if she had summoned him via an ornate spell, his motorcycle whirled by the lot she was parked in and curved around the road to pull up in front of the bar. The lone rider wore a black leather jacket; the yellow eyes of a serpent were stitched on the back, gleaming at her like a beacon in the night.

Forsythe Pendleton Jones III.

Well, well, well.

It was time to get a move on.

After she brushed away the crumbs of the zebra cake she’d just wolfed down, Betty stretched her arms above her head as far as she could within the confines of her car. She pulled down the visor mirror and observed her reflection. Fluffing her fingers through the strands of her hair, she was glad she had left it down tonight. Her eyes fell to her lips, feeling the biting sting of her mother’s words at the back of her mind. Her sister, Polly, had always been the one more suited to dark lipstick, according to their mother, but tonight, scarlet seduction looked good on her. Screw Alice Cooper.  
  
After shoving her keys in the pocket of her jeans, Betty grabbed the leather jacket and her small bag from the back seat. Walking from her car to the doors of The Whyte Wyrm, she pulled the jacket on over her shoulders. The crunch of gravel under her red platform heels, and the wafting smell of smoke emanating from the building, set her on edge. She had to take a calming breath to steel her trembling nerves.  
  
“Now or never,” she muttered under her breath.  
  
This time the burly door attendant looked her up and down and smirked. His gaze was trained on the tantalizing strip of skin between her pants and top that flattered the curve of her waist. Betty gave him a pout of her dark lips, tilting her head, her hand grazing his arm gently. He pulled the door open for her without another thought and Betty was celebrating on the inside. The man licked his lips, eyes watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.  
  
The smoke inside the bar filled the room with a cloudy haze. She could already feel the cancerous stench seeping into her clothes. Scanning the crowded room with focused eyes, Betty glanced towards the bar and the little balcony on the upper level at the top of the stairs. Her fingers curled around the leather cuffs of her jacket, clenching tight.

She didn't immediately see him in her cursory glance around the admittedly large room.  

Wading her way through the thick sea of bar patrons, she stopped at the bar top for a drink. The heavy beat of an old rock n’ roll song was blaring over the sound system accompanied by the constant plink of billiard balls. She shouted her drink order to the bartender, an Old Fashioned, then knocked it back as soon as the man slid it to her. It burned pleasantly down her throat. She plucked the cherry out of the glass and pulled it from the stem with her teeth. Chewing, she pushed the glass away and produced a couple of bills from her purse to pay.

Walking back towards the throng of people, she maneuvered around the pool tables. Her eyes caught sight of several men in leather jackets; the same yellow serpent eyes stitched in the sockets of the winding green snakes adorning their backs. They were conversing in hushed whispers at the bottom of the stairs nestled in the corner, shaking their heads in turn with heated eyes.

Her stomach tightened in recognition, she knew they had to be some of the higher ranking Southside Serpents, underlings of FP Jones II and his son. She crept along, sliding between patrons, making her way to the staircase to see if she could overhear their conversation.

She finally got close enough, leaning her back against the wall near the staircase. She fiddled with her purse, peering inside, pretending to look for something. She tucked some hair behind her ear and let out a frustrated huff.

“... we can’t let… — again…”

“— fuck, I _know_ … — people are starting to suspect…”

Turning her head towards the men on the stairs, Betty watched as they were interrupted by a fourth member. They spoke for a moment, she was able to overhear one of them say something about a meeting upstairs later that evening. As they dispersed into the crowd her eyes tried to follow them all at once, losing them in the process as they seperated.

She huffed out a breath of air, fingers tightening into fists at her sides. Her nails pressed into her palms and she took a calming breath. Betty waited until no one was watching, then ducked under the purple velvet rope that was blocking off the stairs. She crept up them as quickly and quietly as she could manage.

Once she was at the top, she snuck past the small area that overlooked the bar then flattened her back to the wall. She closed her eyes and caught her breath, willing her racing heart to slow down. There weren’t any immediate shouts of protest or footsteps coming after her. She released a sigh and relaxed, slightly. Peering down the hallway, she counted the doors down the hallway. There were four total.

Betty pressed her ear to the first door, listening for any sounds inside. Nothing. Her hand turned the doorknob quietly, and slowly — it was unlocked.  

Rolling her eyes, she pushed the door open, peeking her head around the corner. She lowered her brow in surprise, it was a bedroom. It was mildly messy, but the bed had been made and there had been a half-hearted attempt to shove dirty clothes in an overflowing hamper, at least.

Betty quickly shuffled inside, closing the door behind her and scanning the rest of the room with quick, calculated eyes. There was a desk in the corner that had many stacks of papers and folders scattered on it, a big, thick yellow envelope lay in the midst.

Chewing her lip, she walked to the nightstand on the left side of the bed and opened all of the drawers. Typical items for a guy’s bedroom sat inside. A bottle of water, a box of condoms, cigarettes, a lighter — and _Silence of the Lambs,_ the very same book she had on her own nightstand.

She hesitated, fingers opening the book to the first page to find an inked _J Jones_ , in the right corner. Quickly, she shoved the book back in the drawer and slammed it shut a little harder than necessary.

Betty stood ramrod straight. Her eyes flickered around the room again and she realized where she was. One of the Jones men lived here. Based on the fact that she knew FP Jones II to own a double-wide trailer over near Pickens Park, she was assuming it was his son. He must go by something other than Forsythe, not that she blamed him, it was a mouthful. _But_ _she was in his room_. Right now.

Caustic Serpent Prince himself, destined to overtake the throne of a budding capital gang.

Her eyes landed back on the desk and she skirted around the bed to stand in front of it. The yellow envelope hadn’t been opened yet and she wasn’t sure if she could risk breaking the seal. If she _did_ open it, there wasn’t a way to realistically hide that she had. She ignored it, not wanting to risk discovery.

Searching through the mountain of papers and files, she found little of use. Just business related papers for the bar, a tattoo parlour, and an auto shop. Which, admittedly, he should have kept better organized. Betty tutted at herself and shoved her impulsive need to clean, sort and organize to the back of her mind.

So far, in the days she’d been working on the case, there hadn’t been much proof to the client’s claims that the Southside Serpents were doing anything illegal.

At first she didn’t have any inclination toward whether she found them innocent or guilty — either way she got paid.

The most Betty had been able to scrounge up were some witness testimonies and tips called in to the authorities about men in leather jackets. They were vague, lacking descriptive detail or distinctive features that could identify them as a particular group. She’d been able to access the recordings of the phone calls and deduced that the witnesses were viewing some sort of drug exchange or handoff of goods.

What had turned the tide in her was perhaps the more concerning part of the women that one tip had mentioned.

The call indicated that there was an exchange of money for a scantily clad girl, who wasn’t keen to be there. It showed signs of forced prostitution, which in itself wasn’t good, but Betty’s mind had wandered to the far darker place of human trafficking. The thought had been making her sick to her stomach ever since.

Tabling the thought for the moment, she shuffled through the drawers of the desk. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. She did find a switchblade in the pen holder, but she suspected it was used as a letter opener, if anything.

Her eyes flickered back to the yellow envelope. She picked it up, and felt around the sides. It _felt_ like a stack of photographs. Or perhaps she just wanted it to beso she would have a better excuse to risk opening it.

Chewing her lip, her fingers itched to reach into her purse and pull out her lockpick kit. She could probably unseal this easily with her — _thunk, thunk_.

Breath caught in her throat at the same time her heart started racing impossibly fast, beat sounding off like a drum in her ears, growing steadily louder. Her stomach filled with existential dread, curling into a tight knot.

That sounded like someone climbing the stairs.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Betty set the envelope down with suddenly shaky hands and looked around the room quickly. Her eyes focused on the closet and, praying that she could squeeze inside, she flung the folding door open and thanked the gods above. She slid into the space between the hanging flannels and a set of shelves, closing the door behind her.

She squeezed her eyes shut and counted three more seconds before the door to the room opened.

Having flattened herself as far as she could to the wall, Betty realized she was holding her breath when her lungs started to burn uncomfortably. She forced herself to take calculated, slow breaths, as she listened for the person who had entered the room.

She could just barely see through the slits in the folding screen door. She made out the vague outline of a leather jacket and dark hair.

It really was him, Forsythe Jones III.  

Honestly, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to feel in this moment. Anxiety, of course, but beyond that — maybe fear? What surprised her was the twinge of excitement that had her limbs feeling tingly with the sensation of pins and needles.  

The sound of heavy boot tread against the carpet, and the rustling of fabric, was the only thing she heard.

Watching him felt like an invasion of privacy, but she realized the hypocrisy of that feeling, considering she was hiding in his closet, after sneaking into his room and going through his things. She decided she was probably going to hell anyway, so why not embrace the situation.

Taking a step forward, Betty peered through the slats, carefully.

 _Wolf_.

He was certainly a looker. As he pulled the shirt he’d been wearing off, her eyes widened appreciatively in response. He was all lean muscle, dark hair and smooth skin. She was confused by the disappointment she felt when she saw him pull another shirt on.

He started walking toward the closet, which had her mind slipping from admiration to panic in seconds as she almost tripped backwards. Luckily, he didn’t open the door and her relief was tangible. There had been a flannel hanging on the knob of the door that he’d pulled on before slipping back into his leather jacket.

Betty watched as he pulled a grey beanie from the back pocket of his jeans and pulled it over his hair. It looked like a crown of sorts and and she wanted to snort at the blatant parallel to his supposed serpent royalty.

Her fingers ticked against the thigh of her jeans, nails scratching the denim as an outlet for her nervous energy.

Thankfully, he didn’t linger long. He walked over to the desk and Betty was thankful she hadn’t touched the envelope much. Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a quiet creak.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Betty counted to 15 before she decided to open the door and let herself out.

The room felt different somehow. The air had the press of stagnation and she could smell the remains of leather and the soap he had used to wash with hanging in the air. Her eyes found his discarded shirt at her feet. She stepped over it, resisting the urge to pick it up and breathe the scent of the fabric in with a clench of her fist. With a shake of her head, she walked back toward the desk.

The yellow envelope was gone.

Her eyes slid closed and she cursed under her breath. Casting her eyes to the single window in the room, she wondered if she could climb down the fire escape and drop _down_ to the alley without breaking an ankle in the process.

However, she didn’t have time to entertain the thought for more than a fleeting moment, because the sound of the doorknob turning had her body freezing — a cold feeling of dread washed over her as if she had been dunked in an icy river.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe_ —

“What the fuck are you doing up here? _In my room_?”

Betty’s stomach jumped straight into her throat.  

Jones’ voice was low, dark, and more sinful than she would ever admit out loud.

Turning slowly, her mind began churning, trying, thinking, attempting, to weave a web that sounded plausible.

“Um, well — I was, looking for the bathroom.”

Subterfuge was not one of her strengths.

His eyes, which she suddenly and inconveniently noticed were a stormy shade of grey-blue, narrowed at her. It was hard to ignore how attractive he was when he stood so close.  The hard pressed line of his mouth was as distracting as his broad shoulders, tense under the leather that stretched across them. He moved closer so suddenly that she took a step backward. He continued to press forward until the backs of her legs hit the edge of his bed, leaving her to face him head on.

“You’re a bad liar.”

Betty could feel herself start to sweat.

“I’m not lying.”

_God dammit, Betty._

The words squeaked out of her before she could reign control over her mouth. Jones raised his eyebrows at her, then furrowed his brow into a dangerous expression. She bit her lower lip in response, pressing back against the edge of the bed as he leaned forward. He had one hand on his hip as he pointed at her chest with a finger, a hair's breadth from touching her.

“Don’t think I don’t know _exactly_ who you are.”

He practically growled at her, and it was hard to suppress the shiver that tracked slowly down her spine.

“What — what do you mean? _Who I am?_ I’m the one that should be asking the questions here!” Betty argued, finally finding some semblance of her backbone that she must have dropped on the way up the stairs. Her hands flew to her hips in an attempt to make her figure more imposing than it was.

The fact that he was much more broad and half a head taller than her, even in her heels, didn’t help her much.

Jones looked down at her, his slate blue gaze peering into her as if he was searching for her soul — he looked like he wanted to rip it from her body.

Maybe she wanted him to rip off her jacket instead, she mussed. Less messy, more fun.

Shaking her head, Betty pointed a finger at his chest, mirroring his stance but driving her finger home against his very solid chest to exaggerate her point.

“Oh really?” he snorted, “ _You_ ? The person that decided to ignore the large sign that said “ _patrons prohibited, employees only”_ and walked, not only up the stairs, but into my bedroom,” he said, glancing up and down her body as he took hold of her wrist, yanking it away from his chest. “And you think _you_ get to ask the questions?”

His grip on her wrist was tight enough that it had her clenching her jaw as she curled her hand into a fist. “Yeah, I do. Because there’s something you’re hiding, Forsythe Jones.”

He sneered at her, “It’s _Jughead.”_

Betty scoffed, mimicking his gruff tone, _“_ Well _Jughead_ —”

“Wait —” There was a glimmer in his gaze that looked intrigued for a moment before it narrowed again, and he gestured around the room with his free hand.  “Just where exactly were you? Were you _hiding_ , a minute ago? I was just up here. We didn’t pass each other."

She really hadn’t thought this through.

Sputtering a little, Betty tried to pull her hand from his ironclad grip, to no avail. She whined a little before replying, “I — just, listen, okay — I have my reasons —”

“Like following me around all day yesterday? Trying to get into the bar in a pink fucking cardigan? Taking pictures of me on your phone?”

That stopped her struggling, freezing her in place as she looked up at Jughead who was getting increasingly hostile. The look in his eyes was dark and dangerous, cold and unnerving. Betty gulped, hoping it wasn’t as audible as it felt.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with, little girl. No idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he hissed, finally letting go of her hand. She snapped it back to her chest, cradling her tingling wrist close.

Her jaw clenched uncomfortably, teeth grinding together as her blood started to boil. “ _Little girl_?” she croaked out, her voice feeling suddenly hoarse.

Something snapped in her then. Uncomfortable memories rose to the surface of her mind, fueling the rage that had been growing since their confrontation began. Her hands gripped his biceps and with a strength that surprised her she twisted them around so that their positions were reversed — with Jughead backed against the bed.

His eyes widened, and grew wider still when Betty pushed against his chest with enough force that  he fell back against the bed. He was surprised enough that he didn’t resist at first, but when he came to his senses, he tried to sit up against her.

“I am not a little girl.” The dangerous lilt of her voice surprised her as she leaned onto the bed; her knee pressed against the crotch of Jughead’s pants. He stilled against her, his adam's apple bobbing sharply in a gulp.

“Why don’t you tell me what it is I’m getting into then, Jughead Jones?” she questioned, her knee increased pressure against his groin until he held his hands up in surrender. Betty didn’t miss the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Well, Miss Cooper,” he started, her heart leapt into her throat at the use of her name. “Let’s start with the fact that you’re on the wrong trail here.”

Blinking, she increased the pressure of her knee against Jughead’s groin infinitesimally and forced herself to ignore the little growl that escaped his throat in response. His eyes flashed darkly, lips turning down into a frown. She tutted at him, “I’m going to ignore the fact that you know my name — continue.”

Truly, she was curious to know what he meant by that. After all, she hadn’t found any proof of wrongdoing by the Serpents just circumstantial evidence.

“Have you ever heard of The Ghoulies?”

Betty shook her head in response and Jughead sighed, woefully so. His head hit the bed as he looked away from her. He raised his hands to where her knee was pressing against him and he curled his fingers around her thigh.

“They’re the ones running drugs and girls over the state line. Not the Serpents. The most we do is offer a little muscle support for clients.”

“Wait — _what_?” Betty stuttered out, finally finding her voice. Her body had gone from rigid seriousness to lax disbelief.

Jughead took advantage of her loosened grip and perplexed expression, grabbing her arms to flip their positions again. The rumble of his growl sounded like a lions as he rolled her underneath him.

He’d gathered her wrists in one of his hands, raising them above her head. She barely noticed as her thoughts jumbled, clouding her brain in light of the new information.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured quietly, frown maring her features as she searched his eyes.

Jughead gazed down at her, sighing and shifting so that less of his body was pressing down on her. The loss of surprisingly comforting weight made her even more confused. She stared up at him quizzically, searching his eyes for answers.

“It’s exactly like I said,” he had pulled his beanie off with his unoccupied hand, flinging it behind her head. Betty watched as he carded his fingers through inky black locks that looked softer than her own. “I’ve been trying to expose The Ghoulies for much longer than you’ve been on my ass. They’re the ones that have been running drugs with serpent snakes painted on the sides of their crates,” he paused, looking down at her with an expression she wasn’t quite sure what to make of but looked an awful lot like remorse. “And the ones trading girls around like cattle.”

Betty's eyes widened at his revelation. She felt her lips part as the air left her body in a rush, as if someone had punched her in the gut.

She was quiet then as she processed what Jughead had said. Little details crept up in to her brain as she recalled the vague details that had started the whole investigation.

She was so _stupid_.

There would be little that could surprise her now, unless it turned out that the Ghoulies were her clients, attempting to use her as they framed the Southside Serpents. Which, would not play out in their favor, she was onto them now.

Albeit, none of this would have happened without the help of Jughead.

Still, The Ghoulies wouldn’t get away with their crimes.

“Let me help you,” Betty found herself saying. “You obviously know I’m a private investigator, let me help you do this the _right way,_ ” she offered, pleading with him as she softened her expression.

Mentally, she was jumping for joy at the fact that Jughead Jones wasn’t the criminal that she had thought him to be. He was looking into the crime just as much as she had  been, which sent a churning, pleasant thrill through all the limbs of her body.

She suddenly realized in hindsight that rolling around on his bed seemed less sexy when he was someone she was potentially trying to get thrown in jail. _Now_ , she realized Jughead was holding her wrists above her head as he loomed over her enticingly. The press of his thighs bracketing hers as his weight hovered over her, was making her skin burn.

“Please,” she spoke again, clearing her throat and trying to focus on the way his eyes had gone soft. “Let’s work together.”

The silence was unnerving as he stared down at her. She could see the gears turning between his ears as he thought it over.

Then, he released her wrists from his grasp and smiled at her. She was mesmerized by how boyish and young he looked when he wasn’t frowning — the little dimples at his cheeks made her heart skip a beat.

“Alright, Elizabeth Cooper. You’ve got a deal. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“Betty,” she blurted out, cheeks flaming red and her stomach turning sour at the name that always whispered at the back of her skull in a voice that sounded suspiciously like her mothers. “Call me Betty.”

Jughead nodded and extended a hand out to her, whether to shake or pull her upright, she wasn’t sure. Instead, she yanked on his arm, pulling him back down against her. His arms bracketed her head and their chests pressed together, eyes meeting in the close distance.

“I feel like this could be the beginning of a great partnership Betty,” he said, his breath fanning her face as his eyes searched hers for something she didn’t have the words to describe. Her lips turned upward in a smile as she found her arms looping around his neck.  

“Me too. I think you’re going to be seeing a lot more of me,” Betty paused, tilting her head with a coy smile as she bit her bottom lip, “Juggie.”

  
  
  
  
  
_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr :)  
>    
> [@jane-hoppers](https://jane-hoppers.tumblr.com)


End file.
